Break pt. 2
The oppressive silence is back, surrounding him. Thick as a poisonous fog. Regulus is already drowning, and it’s only been 15 minutes.
The table is long and black, cold to the touch. Regulus keeps his hands tucked in his lap. His parents frame him, one on either side. Evan, miraculously, is seated directly across from him. Barty is on Evan’s side, just a little ways down. No one speaks.
On occasion, Regulus will catch Barty’s eye, and hold it for a minute. A familiar face. Regulus spends what feels like forever crafting the perfect expression, bored but respectful. Perfect for the Dark Lord’s entrance.
The door slams open and he steps through, snake on his heels. He takes his place at the head of the table, surveying the group. Everything is silent. Regulus tries to stop his hand from shaking, he really does, but it’s determined.
The snake slithers up on top of the table, thick body coiling and writhing in a way that makes Regulus sick.
“My children,” The Dark Lord starts. “Thank you for gathering here today.”
Regulus keeps his eyes on the table.
“We have a lot to discuss- but first, everyone please welcome some new guests joining us today.” The Dark Lord tips his head to Evan and Barty, who go wide-eyed.
“We’ve made great progress since our last meeting. Many more Mudbloods have fallen, including a target few at Beauxbatons. Our attack there was successful, and the ministry is further afraid. They know now this isn’t a war they can survive- we’ll come for their women and children too.”
Regulus risks exchanging a glance with Evan.
The Dark Lord continues. “We have spies in the ministry. Soon they will fall.” His eyes flick to Regulus, and the room grows darker. “Regulus Black.”
“Yes, my Lord?” His voice cracks a bit, but Regulus keeps his gaze steady.
“Give us an update on your task.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus sees Evan furrow his brow. “I have made progress, my Lord, but- I'm not finished. I need more time.”
This was a simple task. The Dark Lord’s parseltongue is nothing like the Basilisks. After so many months hearing actual snakespeak, the Dark Lord’s sounds slimy and grating. Unnatural.
Regulus feels eyes on him. All eyes.
I’m sorry, my Lord. He says. Across from him, Evan and Barty both flinch in shock, staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t look at them. He probably should've warned them about this. The Basilisk is resistant to spells, so I’m trying a different tactic.
The Dark Lord narrows his eyes at him, and Regulus’s heartbeat picks up. Your parseltongue is better. You’ve been practicing. Have you been speaking with it?
Regulus swallows. I…
And then the Dark Lord is raising his arm, wand flicking, and he’s inside Regulus’s head.
It’s awful and violating, and Regulus can do nothing but slump forward slightly and concentrate. He knows what the Dark Lord is looking for, and he drags it just out of reach. It’s a chase- if he makes his memories with the basilisk hard to get, a little hidden, that’s where the Dark Lord will look first.
And look he does, cracking them open and spreading them out, like intestines. Memories of the Basilisk flit by, conversations and statues and the cool comfort of the chamber. And he offers more and more, every little detail he can find, keeping the Dark Lord busy. Full.
Then the Dark Lord pulls back, drawing himself out of Regulus’s head with a sickening pain. Regulus lurches forward, desperately trying not to be sick, a bead of sweat dripping down his back. Evan’s eyes don’t move from Regulus’s face.
You’re befriending it, the Dark Lord hisses.
I’m… I’m gaining her trust. Regulus’s voice shakes. My Lord. he adds.
Suddenly the Dark Lord lashes out with his wand, and a cut slices open on Regulus’s face. Right on his cheekbone. Regulus bites down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out. It’s not just his hand that’s shaking- it’s all of him, and he can do nothing to stop it. His mother and father stay facing forward, and Regulus doesn’t have to look at them to know they wear twin expressions of disappointment.
That creature is not a “her”, not to you. The Dark Lord hisses. That is a thing that you must maim. You have one job, Black. Return the fangs to me. Keep the beast alive. It’s that simple.
Blood wells and then tracks down his face like red tears. They collect on his chin. Yes my Lord. Of course.
Regulus knows he can’t wipe his face. That would be a sign of weakness, and only punished further. He lets a drop of blood land in his lap.
You have until the end of the school year. I am being entirely too generous.
Of course. Thank you, My Lord. Regulus ducks his head, and another tear of blood runs down his cheek. It matches the red in his lungs and throat, spilling out his mouth and nose. He’s choking on it, and no one notices. How does no one notice? Surely he’s covered in it by now.
He shuts his eyes and digs his nails into his palm. Focuses on the sting of the cut on his cheek, on the pain under his fingertips. Grounding himself. It hardly works, but it keeps him upright. Keeps him conscious.
The Dark Lord moves on, discussing another attack they’ve planned, this time with the help of some Durmstrang students. If all goes well, it’ll leave another twenty dead.
As he talks, Walburga finds Regulus’s knee under the table, digging her claws in until he jerks away. He’s smart enough to know what that means. She doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know why the Dark Lord’s angry, but she doesn’t need to. The whys aren’t important; not to her.
Regulus meets Barty’s eyes, down the table, and holds them. Barty raises his eyebrows, almost imperceptibly. A silent question: are you ok? Regulus nods, making the motion as small as possible.
He can feel the blood beginning to crust on his cheek.
---
The trip home is silent. Even when they apparate onto Grimmauld Place’s doorstep, no one speaks. Regulus stumbles slightly upon landing, still a little weak from the Dark Lord’s trip into his mind. Walburga grabs his arm, yanking him upright harshly.
Still, no sounds are made. Not until they get inside.
As soon as they step through the door, Regulus is hit with a stinging curse. He flinches back hard, and Walburga stocks forwards. Orion crosses his arms and leans against the wall behind her.
“From what I understand, you had a very simple task. That’s what it sounded like at the beginning of the year. Am I right?”
Just say something, Regulus tells himself. Anything. Naturally, nothing comes out.
She raises her wand and Regulus trips backwards, landing hard on the ground. “Am I right?” She repeats, standing over him.
He forces himself to open his mouth. “Yes,” he croaks.
“So why is it that the Dark Lord is displeased with your progress?” When she’s met with silence she steps forward, hovering over him. “Answer me, Regulus.”
“It’s taking longer than I thought,” He tries, although it won’t make a difference. “I’m sorry.”
She lifts her wand again. “See, I thought that we’d agreed this was going to go smoothly. I thought you promised me that the Dark Lord wouldn’t be disappointed.”
Regulus just squeezes his eyes shut, beyond responding.
“And yet, here you are, with this on your face.” Walburga crouches gracefully, digging the tip of her wand into the cut on his cheek. He can’t help the small whimper that slips from his lips. Then she hums lightly, running a soothing thumb over the cut and cupping his cheek lightly. He resists the urge to lean into her touch, relishing in the gentleness that keeps him where he is. She stands again. “I expected so much better from you, Regulus. I am so disappointed.”
He moves up until he’s kneeling, because he can’t trust himself to stand right now. Sirius would be so ashamed, he thinks. “I’m sorry, Maman-”
“Crucio.”
He’s back on the ground again, knees to his chest, lost. Someone in his head is screaming, loud and splitting. It’s not him, that much he knows. Sirius had been the screamer. Regulus always stayed silent, unable to make a sound, everything spiraling inside himself. Nothing allowed to escape. That much hasn’t changed.
Someone is digging a knife into his chest and dragging it down, ripping through cartilage and muscle and organs. It’s pure agony, the simplest form of pain, it’s all consuming. Every breath is fire.
At least this is it, he thinks. His mother never uses the Cruciatus twice on the same night. (Except- no. He doesn't like to think about that.) She doesn’t want to break him- just teach him. Crucio is too far, too violent. It's reserved for special nights like these.
Sirius always got the worst of it, anyway. Regulus has always been the favorite child.
When the spell fades, he’s trembling violently, left with a residual ache he knows won’t leave for hours.
His mother kneels next to him, cupping his cheek with the same gentleness from before, the one that makes Regulus sick. “When you go back to school, you will complete this task. It will be your only focus. You will not fail again.”
He nods, and he knows there are tears mixing with the blood on his face. He wonders when that happened. He has no memory of crying. How embarrassing. She looks at him with disgust. “Ugh. Pathetic. You can’t even keep yourself together.”
He still can’t move, trembling too hard to even sit up.
“Say it.” His mother murmurs, and Regulus is hit with a flash of deja vu, their conversation on the train platform on the first day of school still fresh in his mind. “Say you won’t fail again.”
He can’t- just shuts his eyes.
She leaves him there.
---
It takes a long time for Regulus to pick himself up off the floor. It’s not even by much; he just rolls over and pushes himself up on one elbow- and he only makes the effort because he doesn’t want to choke on the vomit rapidly climbing up his throat.
He’s sick on the floor, and when Kreacher appears to clean it with a snap of his fingers, Regulus can barely manage a thank you. The house elf titters and helps him to his feet, holding him steady.
“Kreacher is going to get Master Regulus a glass of water,” he says, fingers nervously twisting his pillowcase sack. “Master Regulus should be getting himself to his bed.”
“Thank you Kreacher.” Regulus croaks, taking a tentative step. By some miracle, he makes it to the stairs.
It takes a long time for him to get up them.
When he gets to his room, he collapses into his bed. The hard mattress creaks uncomfortably beneath him. Kreacher appears a second later, setting a cup of water on his bedside table. “Kreacher would love to bring Master Regulus some dinner, because Master Regulus should be eating, but Mistress says he’s not to have food tonight.”
“That’s ok, Kreacher.” Regulus says tiredly. “I don’t think I could keep anything down right now anyway.”
Kreacher nods nervously. “Kreacher is sorry again, Master Regulus.” He shifts on his feet, and then, with one last apologetic look, disappears with a pop.
For the first time in a while, Regulus is entirely alone. He tries to drink some water, but gives up after spilling some on the floor. His hand is shaking too much to manage it- a side effect of the cruciatus. Lupin had been right, all that time ago in the library. There was a reason Sirius always shook after going home.
Sirius. Sirius. Sirius.
Regulus turns his face into the pillow, gripping the sheets as tight as he can. Right then, his absence tears through Regulus like it hasn’t in a long time. He suddenly can’t breathe through his loneliness. Anger gives way to something deeper, and Regulus misses. His breath comes out gasping and desperate- and he can’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut, sobs pressing at the back of his throat. He doesn’t let them out- but, God, does he choke . He despises him, hates his guts, but has never wanted him here as desperately as he does right now. He wants the sound of his God awful music to drift across the hall, wants him to poke his head into Regulus’s room, even if it’s just to flip him off. Wants to hear his footsteps on the stairs. Wants him to never speak to Regulus again, if it means he'll stay. Wants his presence, wants him here, with Regulus, in this house.
He doesn’t want to be alone.
He wants his brother.
Don’t leave me here.
Don’t do this to me.
I’m sorry I let you leave.
I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you to stay.
And then, as he drifts off:
I miss you.
---
The next day, every joint hurts. Getting out of bed is agony, but he manages it. When he stumbles into the bathroom, something in the mirror catches his eye. It’s the blood from the cut on his cheek, still dried into tracks on his face. He hadn’t gotten it off the night before.
He takes a towel and with shaky hands wipes it away to examine the damage. The cut is long, but not necessarily deep. If he’s lucky it won’t scar. He doesn’t use any healing spells, not yet.
Walburga had certain rules about these things- he was only allowed to heal injuries after she deems he’s learned his lesson.
When he makes it down to breakfast, he slides into his chair with a small gasp, still sore. Orion looks at him over the top of his newspaper. “You’re up late.”
“Sorry.” Regulus whispers. The words are crusted on his tongue.
Orion says nothing, just snaps his newspaper, going back to reading.
Walburga enters, sitting down neatly. Kreacher appears with a pop and sets a soft boiled egg in a silver egg holder in front of her.
Regulus gets one too.
“Your face might scar.” She says, picking up her spoon. “Do not heal it. Not until the cut is fully closed.” She looks up at him sharply. “I assume you’ve been keeping up with the glamour I taught you? The disillusionment charm?”
“Yes,” He nods. “I can do that.”
“Good. Keep it covered. We don’t need that oaf Dumbledore asking questions.”
Regulus says nothing, watching her strike into the top of her egg.
“I hope he’s first on the Dark Lord’s execution list when we win this war.” She digs her spoon into the egg, shell cracking, and a swell of yolk drips out and down its side. It’s sticky and dull, dripping onto the plate.
“I’m sure he will be. He’s high profile.” Orion says. Walburga carves off the top of the egg, exposing the white of its flesh. Regulus doesn’t take his eyes away, even as she twists her spoon inside, lifting a gelatinous chunk to her mouth and taking a dainty bite.
“I hope so,” She sighs.
Regulus pushes his egg away. He’s lost his appetite.
---
When Regulus leaves the house next, it’s to visit Barty and Evan. Dorcas is supposed to join them: they sent her a letter with a park address and time. Regulus sent one to Pandora as well, but she was out of the country with her family. He sits under a tree, and tilts his head back, soaking up the light. He hasn’t been outside in days.
Barty accosts him first, the second he and Evan arrive. “What the fuck, Reg?” His voice is a hushed whisper. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
Regulus blinks at him.
Barty nearly growls. “You’re a parselmouth? You’re on a mission from the Dark Lord? You absolute bloody wanker-”
Evan cuts him off with a pointed look. “Regulus, are you ok?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Evan narrows his eyes. “Your cheek- did you use a healing spell? It’s all gone.”
“Yes.”
“Can we get back to the secret mission thing please?” Barty asks desperately, plopping himself down in the grass. Evan sighs, then joins him.
Regulus glances between them, cool. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Why don’t we start with what you’re up to, then we can get to you being able to talk to snakes.”
Just then, Dorcas joins them, throwing her arms around Barty from behind. He jumps and she laughs, and Regulus finds himself relaxing into the sound. She leans down and kisses him on the cheek. Regulus tries not to wince.
“Hey Dorcas,” Barty starts. Evan shoots him a warning look, which he ignores. It’s fine. Regulus is beyond caring. “Did you know Reg here is a parselmouth?”
Dorcas stares at Regulus. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Forgot to mention that to you as well did he? Funny.” Barty crosses his arms.
“Are you really?” Dorcas asks.
Regulus nods, watching her through heavy lids.
"What?"
"It's true. We heard it."
"What?"
Regulus just stares at her.
“Prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Yeah. Say something in snake.”
“I don’t feel the need to do that.”
“Just do it.”
I've missed the sun. He enjoys the look on her face for a moment.
“Oh my god.” Dorcas stares at him.
Evan frowns at him. “What did you say?”
“Guess you’ll never know.”
“Wait- how long have you known you could do this?” Dorcas’s mouth is still slightly open.
“A while.”
“And you didn’t tell us?”
“I didn’t need to.”
Dorcas glares at him. “Regulus Black.”
“So what’s the secret mission then?” Barty asks, leaning forward.
Regulus just sends him a look.
Barty rolls his eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell us. Is that why you’ve been so weird these past months?”
“Wait- secret mission? Guys, what’s going on?” Dorcas looks between them, utterly confused.
Evan sighs, then turns and starts to explain.
Regulus closes his eyes and misses Pandora.
---
When he comes back, his mother is waiting with crossed arms. He can feel the weight of the house settle on his shoulders the second he passes the threshold.
“You’re too distracted.”
“What?”
“It’s why you haven’t been able to succeed in your task yet. You’re too distracted.”
Regulus frowns. “I’m not sure that’s it.”
“When the Dark Lord entered your mind, you were weak. You could do nothing.” She takes a step forward, and it’s almost funny how hard Regulus flinches. “What do you know of occlumency?”
“A little. I know the basics, how to block my mind, how to hide certain things.” He doesn’t tell her about the hours he's spent reading, consuming every book in the Hogwarts library. So did Sirius, before he left. He hasn’t practiced much beyond rearranging memories.
Really, he should've been expecting it. He wasn't.
Suddenly he’s on his knees, and she's inside his head, digging and searching, violently tearing through memories as she goes. He has no time to distract her with a false lure, like he did with the Dark Lord. It’s too late for that. So he finds the memories he doesn't want her to see, the warm ones, and clings to them. Drags them down. Pulls them under.
And for a moment, he thinks he’s safe. He thinks he’s managed it. But those weren’t the memories she was going for, and now, for the lack of a better word, he’s fucked.
She gets her claws in and yanks, and Regulus is flooded with memory. He’s crawling on his knees to Sirius, lying unconscious on a blood soaked rug. Whispering meaningless words, trying to pick him up. Commanding Kreacher to leave his room. Hands running over bloody clothes, rising panic. Healing spells falling from his lips like prayers.
Regulus feels Walburga’s disgust and disapproval wash over him, and foolishly, he tries to fight back. Pushing against her presence in his mind, attempting to block it out. It doesn’t work.
She’s got something else now, more recent, a fresh one. Regulus in his bed, holding back tears and missing his brother. He feels her inspect the memory, turning it over, examining it.
It hurts.
He shoves with all his might, and finally, finally, Walburga retreats. She pulls back, and Regulus lurches, feeling like he might be sick. Again. He’s left empty and raw and disgusting.
He’s shaking, but then, what else is new? Walburga is watching him, and Regulus can feel her fury, emanating off her in waves.
“So it’s him that’s been distracting you. He’s a traitor, Regulus. You were to wipe all fake goodwill he tricked you into having out of your mind. You do not love him. You do not miss him. You are the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Toujours Pur. You can not hold sympathy for a dirty muggle-lover.”
“I know. I hate him. I hate him, Maman.” And it’s not hard to say. It comes easy, easy and true.
Her gaze cuts through him. “Not enough. Come with me. Nous verrons à quel point tu le détestes vraiment.”
And it’s fine, he can do this. He gets up, stumbles a bit, but follows her. Up the stairs. Into the spare guest room. Regulus’s heart sinks. He’s been here before.
She used to make both Sirius and Regulus do this as kids. To test them, to understand them- or that’s what she said, anyway. They both knew what she actually got out of it: it taught her how to hurt them the most.
There’s a cabinet, against the wall. Dark mahogany, rattling slightly. A bogart.
Regulus shuts his eyes. Walburga spares him a glance. “Eyes open. Watch, Regulus.”
She walks to the cabinet, making sure he’s looking, before she throws open the door. And Regulus wants to look away, punishment be damned. He wants to- but that’s not how this works.
Sirius’s dead corpse, bloody and rotten, tumbles out of the cabinet and lands on the hardwood floor with a wet flop. Regulus' stomach lurches. Sirius’s eyes are open, staring at the ceiling lifelessly. There’s something slightly wrong about his face, it’s a little too bloated, a little too stiff.
Walburga had slowly stopped this exercise as the kids got older. It wasn’t that productive for her- they always stayed the same. But for Sirius and Regulus, well. It never got easier, seeing each other’s corpses.
Until last year. When the cabinet opened for Regulus, Sirius' dead body appeared and Walburga had tutted disapprovingly. Regulus had vanished it as quickly as possible, not looking at his brother. But when it was Sirius’s turn, it was a lifeless James Potter that tumbled out, rotting and bloated. Walburga had screamed something about muggle-lovers, Sirius had been sick on the floor, and Regulus had excused himself quietly.
Now, Regulus pulls out his wand. ‘“Riddikulus!” The bogart vanishes back into the cabinet, and the doors shut with a slam. Walburga is staring at him, with no expression. He can feel his heartbeat, like a stopwatch.
And then she’s surging forward and grabbing his arm, disapparating and reappearing in the kitchen. When she speaks, it's an angry hiss.
“You still care for him. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, you still care.”
Regulus swallows, tips up his chin. He knows what’s coming.
"He left us, Regulus. He wasn’t strong enough for this life. He left you."
"I know."
"We stayed. Your father and I, we stayed. We're still here. We're who you're loyalties should lie with."
"They are, Maman, I promise."
Her gaze softens. "I know. But if you’re still loyal to someone who’s a muggle sympathizer, it’s only fair you face a muggle punishment. Sleeve.”
He keeps his lips pressed tight, but rolls up his left sleeve all the way to his shoulder. It’s nothing new- it’s been the same since he was 6.
When he goes to bed that night, he has to sleep on his right side.